


Chrysalism

by thebesttempinchiswick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Depression, End!verse, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:44:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebesttempinchiswick/pseuds/thebesttempinchiswick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>n. the amniotic tranquility of being indoors during a thunderstorm, listening to waves of rain pattering against the roof like an argument upstairs, whose muffled words are unintelligible but whose crackling release of built-up tension you understand perfectly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chrysalism

  
He doesn't dream anymore. That was one of the first things the drugs took. Which was really a shame, since it was one of the only things about being human he had really liked. But it didn't matter, not now. Nothing mattered now. They were past the finish line, but somehow they were still going. Even if it did matter, there was nothing he could do. He was too far gone to stop with the drugs, and after all, why would he want to? Dean had stopped caring long ago, so why should he?

  
The thought came with a sense of bitterness. Dean. What he would have given for Dean to have cared. But he didn't. No one did, actually. No one noticed when he would go off during raids and stock up on Vicodin from the local pharmacies. Vicodin, and whatever else he could find, he wasn't picky. Anti-depressants were his favorites, but he would go for Xanax, opiates, morphine tablets, Oxycontin, really anything at all that advised you not to drive with it. He never drove, of course, he always sat in the back. But sometimes he thought about it. Down a bottle and drive off a highway, because who gave a fuck? But for some sadistic reason, he kept going.

  
Some days it really was too much. He tried to save the really good stuff for those days. He managed to scrape up a few needles and some liquid morphine, as well as some ketamine, and some chloroform as a last resort. He liked the ketamine particularly because of the dream state that came with it. He could go anywhere he wanted at the prick of a needle. It was the only way he could dream anymore. He always dreamt of the same thing. He dreamt of years ago, when Sam was alive and Dean still smiled and he still thought humans were wonderful. Oh, how wrong he'd been. How foolish to think that this earth was anything worth preserving. Now he was stuck on it, and all he wanted was for it to end. Lucifer had already won; they all knew that. He was just waiting to collect his winnings.

  
He thought of going away. He knew he could do it. There had been places that humans never went, places still untouched. The deserts particularly, the ones in america were at least livable. He could take a car and drive, drive until all he could see was sand. But he needed drugs, and there were none in the desert, so he stayed. That was the worst part. There was nothing to stay for but the drugs, not anymore. He questioned himself more and more as the days went on. He knew that if he left that the drugs would go away, but he needed them for the sadness, and would that go away too if he left?

  
There were two ways his story ended. He knew that. Either the drugs would kill him, or Lucifer would. If he was particularly unlucky, it would be the Croatoan virus. But that was unlikely; he didn't fight, not anymore. He never seemed to win, and at some point, it stopped being worth it. Tonight was one of those nights that he sided with the drugs. They were coursing through his veins as he sat alone in the house, feeling the chrysalism gather itself around him like a blanket. It was raining outside, thunder and lightening, the whole deal. He wondered if it would turn to fire, or some other plauge, like the days of the Old Testament. At least then, the last days might mean something. Last days, he thought. Last days, better make the most of them.

  
He popped three more vicodin in the spirit.

  
It was like Russian Roulette. He never counted, and so he constantly wondered. When would he land on the magic number? The number that might finally send him home? Up or down, it didn't matter to him anymore. Anything had to be better than this endless nothingness, ever growing inside of him, swallowing up everything that he knew he once was. It was a pulsing grey ache that could only be lessened by the pills. He did what he had to, he always had.

  
Three, it turned out, was the magic number.

 

They found him in the silence of the next morning. Dean hadn't known, but he wasn't surprised. No one knew, it turned out. No one at all. He hadn't even tried to hide it, they soon realized, but no one said a word. No one said a word when they burned his body and his bones, a hunter's funeral, the next in a series of many. That was the last thing the drugs took. Not him, but the words from the minds and mouths of those who knew him. Because they realized all the sudden that they hadn't known him; not the real him, the him that was in pain. They knew the man who hosted orgies and had given up caring long ago.

That night, chrysalism again hung heavy over the camp. Ominous and sorrowful, there was an unspoken truth in the air with it. Tonight was the last night. Somehow, they knew. They all knew.

The next morning, the sun rose, and the air smelled of sulfur.

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna have a Dean chapter soon I promise


End file.
